The CEO Used AI To Reply While He Loved Her Chapter 01
I’ve always been the kind of person who shared everything.
The flowers blooming on the side of the road. A terrible cup of coffee. The sunset on my drive home
from work.
Even random moments when I suddenly thought about Callan Mercer.
I would always text him.
His replies were short. Distant. Sometimes borderline cold.
But he always replied.
So for the past six months, I survived on those dry little responses while planning a wedding almost
entirely alone. The engagement party. The dress fittings. The venue tours.
Right up until five days before the wedding.
That was when I found the AI program on his computer.
It categorized every message I sent, extracted keywords, then generated the safest, laziest possible
response.
Miss him?
“Mm.”
Upset?
“Got it.”
Trying to argue?
“Don’t do this right now.”
I stared at the screen for a very long time before I finally realized something.
For the past six months, the thing replying to my messages had never been Callan.
And in the chat window beside it, his conversation with another woman stretched endlessly down the screen.
(Good morning.]
¡Good night.)
[What should we eat tonight?]
[Should we take a trip to the coast sometime?]
That was when it finally hit me.
Callan Mercer wasn’t incapable of love. He loved loudly. Completely. Excessively.
He just never loved me that way.
And for the first time in five years, I finally decided to walk away from a relationship where I had been talking to myself all along.
Callan got home a little after ten that night.
He walked in loosening his tie, kicking off his shoes near the entryway.
“You’re still awake?”
I sat on the couch watching him.
“I was waiting for you.”
He frowned immediately.
“You could’ve texted me. Why stay up for this?”
I looked at him quietly.
“Callan… do you think I talk too much?”
His hand paused halfway through taking off his watch.
“Where is this coming from?”
“Just answer honestly.”
He tossed his jacket over a chair, already sounding irritated.
“Sometimes.”
i nodded once.
“Like when?”
“When I’m working and you keep sending random stuff.”
“Such as?”
He barely had to think about it.
“At lunch you texted me about some new dessert place under your office and asked if I wanted to go this weekend. Then later you said you wanted to switch the wedding flowers to white lisianthus.
He gave a short laugh.
“And tonight you said the streetlights were out and you got nervous walking home alone.”
Then he looked at me.
“Evelyn, have you ever noticed you tell me literally everything?”
I held his gaze.
“Isn’t that what people in relationships do?”
“But I seriously don’t have the energy for all of it.”
He sat across from me, his tone softening slightly, like he genuinely believed he was being
reasonable.
“I work all day. Then I come home and have to manage your emotions too. Can you be a little more
realistic?”
Be a little more realistic.
That had been his favorite line for the past five years.
I wanted to celebrate anniversaries together.
Be a little more realistic.
I wanted him to come to my dress fittings.
They all look the same anyway.
i wanted to vent about work after a bad day.
Everybody hates work, Evelyn.
But earlier that afternoon, I had read through his messages with Brielle Hart.
The thread was so long it took me hours just to scroll back six months.
And the version of Callan I found there felt like a complete stranger.
Patient. Attentive. Ridiculously gentle.
Brielle complained once that grapes were too sour, and he spent thirty minutes coaxing her into eating something else like she was a child.
I looked at him sitting across from me and finally asked the question I’d swallowed for years.
“Then why doesn’t Brielle ever have to ‘be realistic”?”
His expression darkened instantly.
“So you stayed up waiting for me just to start a fight?”
Classic Callan.
Every conversation about Brielle somehow became my fault in the end. I was too emotional. Too dramatic. Too immature.
But this time, I didn’t back down.
“Fine. Forget Brielle.”
I looked straight at him.
“If you thought I talked too much, you could’ve just said that. Why use Al to respond to me?”
For the first time that night, his face actually changed.
The irritation cracked slightly, exposing something uglier underneath.
Guilt.
“How did you even find that?” he asked sharply. “Did you go through my computer?”
I didn’t answer.
i just kept staring at him.
After a long silence, he exhaled heavily and leaned back against the couch.
“You always complained that I made things for Brielle but never for you.” He rubbed a hand over his forehead. “The AI was supposed to be your gift.”
I almost laughed.
In the tech world, Callan Mercer was considered a genius.
He once built Brielle a fully customized interactive website for her birthday, complete with animated snowfall, fireworks, hidden voice messages, and countdown features only she could
unlock.
[Brie, you deserve to stay happy forever. I’ll always be here.]
When she couldn’t sleep, he coded a sleep app for her. It recommended sounds based on her mood and even reminded her to drink water at two in the morning.
When she got bored at work, he built her a little game where a cartoon character chased her across the screen cheering her on.
“Brie’s the best.”
“You’ve got this.”
And me?
I got an AI program designed to pretend my fiancé still cared enough to text me back.
